


my good friend

by nightdaze



Category: Sengoku Basara
Genre: Asphyxiation, Dubious Consent Fantasy, Light Bondage, M/M, PWP, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 10:15:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22491160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightdaze/pseuds/nightdaze
Summary: Mouri, despite himself, jacks it to thoughts of Gyoubu and that's the entire story.[ de-anon reupload ]
Relationships: Mouri Motonari/Ootani Yoshitsugu
Kudos: 4





	my good friend

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this back in 2016, deleted it out of shame or something, and now here it is again with 100% less shame
> 
> 99% less

Motonari feels an all-too familiar heat pulsing in his groin and he loathes it. He slams the door to his quarters shut and leans his back against the wall. He steadies his breathing as best he can, tries to think of anything but butterflies and bandages. He cannot. Otani is all that occupies his mind, and it infuriates him to know how that man would laugh if he knew... He can imagine Otani’s obscured smile, the amused leer in his pitch black eyes. He would float close and say in that hoarse voice of his:

“Why, Mouri, _my good friend,_ I would have never guessed. Does the rot of flesh allure you so?”

He would maneuver behind him, grab him by his armorless wrists and murmur into his ear, “How _deviant._”

Motonari inhales sharply, shakes his head to will away the insidious thoughts and feelings. He stalks over to the table in the center of his room, sits down, and tries to busy himself with the contents of the parchment laid out before him. To his frustration, he can’t focus on the words. Otani’s phantom voice whispers salaciously, and it drowns out all logic and reason from his mind.

Motonari’s imagination has it in for him.

With traitorously trembling hands, he removes his helmet and arm guards, followed by his gloves, not wishing to sully them, and disrobes from the waist down. He shouldn’t be doing this, he tells himself, sitting back down. He should resist. These carnal urges are beneath him.

  
But lust festers in his belly like a nest of wriggling maggots, and the itch is impossible to ignore.

  
He closes his eyes, takes his cock in hand, and feels awash with disgust.

In his mind, Otani releases Motonari’s wrists only to bind his arms behind him with bandages. Another bandage wraps around his throat like a too-tight collar; it’s accompanied by a lead that Otani takes in hand. Otani jerks the lead, pulling Motonari along with him like some kind of animal. Some kind of _pet._

**\-- ** Why? Why does this turn him on? For Mouri Motonari, who bows to nothing but the sun itself, to desire this domination in some way... It’s an embarrassment. It’s beyond disgraceful.

It doesn’t stop him from pumping his cock. He lets out a low hiss. “Release me,” orders the imaginary Motonari. “At once.” Otani chuckles darkly.

“Ah, the impudence of youth,” Otani says as if he is so much older than Motonari himself, the arrogant bastard. “Learn to hold your tongue.”

And the bandage around Motonari’s neck grows impossibly tight. He chokes. His eyes widen and the primal emotion of panic takes over, caring nothing for his dignity in this moment. He can’t even grab at the bandage to loosen it, bound as he is. He struggles, thrashes, but his vision begins to blur, the shape of Otani and his floating palanquin growing hazy and indistinct. His lungs scream for oxygen. His knees give out and he drops to the floor. It seems only moments before he is about to lose consciousness that the makeshift collar mercifully loosens its grip, and Motonari inhales deeper than he ever has before in his life. He starts panting then, gasping greedily for more air. It’s almost orgasmic.

Motonari strokes himself faster and faster. He suffers a wave of nausea at the perversity of it all.

He doesn’t stop.

“I do believe I _like_ this look on you,” the imaginary Otani purrs, sliding a hand down Motonari's cheek, the texture of gauze pressing against his skin. He grabs Motonari's chin between his forefinger and thumb and forces Motonari's head upwards. Motonari’s hair is disheveled; sticky sweat drips down his face. He continues to gasp. He glowers at Otani and tries to find his voice.

“You... how dare... you...”

“Oh, hush,” says Otani. He proceeds to run a hand through Motonari’s sweaty hair in a twisted display of affection. “All the suitors in the world and you lust for this wretched, decrepit body. How _sick_ you are.” He cackles.

The real Motonari shudders, his strokes growing more and more erratic. _Deviant. Sick._ These condemning words are an aphrodisiac. He lets out a shaky breath, allowing the fantasy to continue in spite of the revolted part of his mind demanding he stop entertaining these perverse thoughts at once.

“To insinuate... I am at all attracted to you...” growls the imaginary Motonari. “Save your feigned outrage for someone gullible enough to believe it, my_ friend._”

The real Motonari’s breath hitches. Something about that word, the inflection in it, sends a fire up his groin like little else. He strokes yet more roughly, hand growing slick with precum.

“I’ve noticed your lingering gazes,” Otani continues, visibly amused. “Your “accidental” brushes against me -- of all people!” He chuckles. “And here I thought the lord of Chugoku was above such base, earthly desires.”

“I am,” insists Motonari.

“Oh? Then tell me why your arousal is so prominent, hmm?”

Motonari’s erection tents through his pants, plainly visible to see. Precum seeps through the fabric.

Otani sneers at him, then forcefully attempts to tug him to his feet by way of the collar and lead. Motonari resists, at first, but the collar begins to tighten again and he complies. Otani then lowers his floating palanquin down so he can palm Motonari through his pants. Motonari makes as if to jerk away, but is yanked back into place. Otani’s grip on the leash is solid.

The momentum within the real Motonari is building. He thinks he’s getting close. He wishes he wasn’t.

“Your shame must be insurmountable,” Otani says as if this is something delightful.

“Go... to hell,” pants Motonari.

“The time for that has not yet come,” Otani replies coolly, stroking him more forcefully through the fabric. “Awfully hard, aren’t you?” he adds, not bothering to disguise how entertaining he finds that.

Motonari writhes in place uselessly, his entire body feeling blazing hot. Otani’s ministrations feel so damnably good. He makes a valiant effort to keep his expression neutral, but a choked groan escapes through clenched teeth all the same.

“Sounds of pleasure, you know, sound remarkably similar to those of pain,” Otani states.

“Fascinating,” Motonari manages to quip as Otani teases the tip of his cock. He's so hard it hurts. His eyes are half-lidded, and drool he can't wipe away is beginning to drip from his mouth down his chin.

“How disgusting,” scolds Otani. Giving one last tantalizingly slow stroke, he says, “You are a being of filth, _my good friend._”

That is what tips the real Motonari over the edge. He comes messily into his hand, gasping like his imaginary, strangled self. He rides out the aftershocks and braces himself against the table with his clean hand.

Libido satisfied for the moment, he stands up, finds something to wipe his dirty hand on, and then re-dresses himself with a forced calm. He will continue his day as normal, as if he did not just masturbate to repulsive thoughts of Otani Yoshitsugu. The soldiers he will greet outside will never know what happened within this room, though they may notice the telling flush marring his face. And if they should point it out, they will face _consequences._

He hates Otani.

He hates himself.


End file.
